A Tribute to Daffy's

 

For me, one of the advantages of living in New Jersey is the plethora of shopping malls within a fifteen mile radius of my house. When I first moved here, I remember the heady excitement of loading my double stroller into the trunk, and spending each winter afternoon at a different mall with my two babies in tow. I was on a first name basis with the employees of Gap, Children’s Place and Old Navy, and I knew exactly on which day of the week the sale items would get their final markdown. I went on this way for a while, unaware that I would soon broaden my shopping horizons. Then I discovered Daffy’s.

For those of you who are not familiar with my former favorite store, their slogans “Clothing Bargains for Millionaires” and “High Fashion. Low Prices” were pretty accurate descriptions of what they were all about.  They were stocked with high end European designer clothing and accessories at absurdly low prices. They sold kids’ Italian shoes at a fraction of the price of the regular shoe stores, and every item in the store was unique and trendy with a sophisticated European flair.

The best part was that there were six Daffy’s stores within driving distance of where I live. If I found something I loved, albeit in the wrong size, I would simply try another Daffy’s location, and usually after hitting all six, I was successful in procuring my treasure. It was not uncommon for my fellow Daffy’s aficionados and me to go straight from one Daffy’s store to another, and sometimes we would even manage to get to a third one. We told ourselves (and our husbands!) it was all in the name of saving money. We were outfitting our children in European designers at Target prices!

My fellow Daffy’s shoppers and I had it all down to a science. The kids’ summer merchandise would arrive in the stores in February, and despite the frigid temperatures, there would be a mad rush for shorts and linen sundresses. Then in the sweltering July heat, the stores would begin stocking their fall line, and we would cajole our poor kids into modeling the wool and velvet ensembles that we had schlepped home in our overstuffed yellow Daffy’s bags.

When I was new in town, many of my closest friendships originated on the Daffy’s checkout line.  It was a great ice breaker to approach a fellow Daffy’s addict with “Didn’t I see you yesterday at the Daffy’s in Paramus?” We would then admire one another’s purchases and exchange information about which location had the largest selection of kids’ outerwear.  Most of my Daffy’s friends perpetually had overstuffed yellow shopping bags in the trunks of their minivans, and during carpool we would bring out the loot and compare our bargains.

So you can imagine my sense of panic, when I began to hear rumors that Daffy’s was going out of business. I refused to believe that it would happen, until it was confirmed by favorite Daffy’s employee, Delilah in Secaucus. I had known Delilah for about ten years, and I had carefully cultivated our relationship to the point that she consistently made exceptions and allowed me to return my merchandise after the strictly enforced fourteen day return policy deadline. After completing my transaction that day, she tearfully proclaimed that Daffy’s was indeed closing down and that she would be losing her job of twenty years.

It seemed that everyone was mourning Daffy’s impending demise. Even friends of mine who were not Daffy’s shoppers, called or texted me to express their condolences. A close friend of mine, who spent hours in Daffy’s in search of matching outfits for her four lovely daughters, was recovering from a c section at the time, and I debated whether or not to relay the devastating news to her, as I wasn’t sure if she was strong enough to handle the shock. Another acquaintance literally began to hyperventilate upon hearing the distressing news. She had planned to outfit her entire family from Daffy’s for her son’s upcoming Bar Mitzvah. My mother in Toronto, who always made sure her visits here included a couple of Daffy’s excursions, took the news really hard. After hanging up the phone with her, I got the feeling that she wouldn’t be coming to visit quite so often in the future.

And so began six weeks of Daffy’s marathon shopping.  At first they advertised that all merchandise was 10 to 30 percent off. The question then was whether to buy immediately or perhaps wait for further markdowns.  Most of us figured that by the time everything went fifty percent off, the pickings would be really slim, so we lived each Daffy’s excursion as if it were our last. Some of my friends purchased wardrobes for their kids in the next five sizes, and one woman even confided that she bought an entire layette in both pink and blue because she was contemplating having another baby. I would eagerly await the weekly email from Daffy’s, as they went from ten percent off all merchandise, to thirty percent, and finally, at the bitter end, to seventy percent off the entire store.

It was heartbreaking to see the once teeming racks of great clothing now practically bare, and the “Going Out of Business” sign in the window, never failed to elicit torrents of tears. Everything was final sale, so even at the steeply discounted prices; I would have to make quick decisions which was no easy feat for an impulse shopper like me. The sense of desperation was palpable amongst the shoppers as people literally fought over the merchandise.

Even my husband got into the Daffy’s frenzy, as he scouted out the Daffy’s near his office, coming home from work each day, laden with the bright yellow bags.  My fellow Daffy’s companions and I would lament as we met each other in those final days, frantically trying to score one last great Daffy’s deal.

Sadly, toward the end there was really nothing left to buy. I would go almost daily, tearing up at the sight of the Going Out of Business sign, scouring the empty racks for just one last bargain.  On the final day that the store was open, it appeared desolate with just a few racks in the middle of the cavernous space. I halfheartedly riffled through the dregs, unable to come to terms with the reality that for the first time in my entire Daffy’s shopping experience, there was absolutely nothing to buy.  I walked out empty-handed, as the Daffy’s door closed behind me for the last time.

It’s been about three months since Daffys’ demise, and the fact is, I really miss it. Just the other day, a neighbor who calls upon me for shopping advice, asked me where she could find a suit for her ten year old son. “Nowhere.” I proclaimed mournfully. “I used to buy all my sons’ suits at Daffy’s. If I had to buy a suit now, I don’t even know where I would go.” She offered her condolences to me, and assured me that I would soon recover from the loss. On the phone with a friend recently, she bemoaned the fact that there was nowhere to shop anymore, and that there was a huge Daffy’s sized void in her life.

My collection of Daffy’s shopping bags has become prized collectors’ items and I am loathe to part with any item that I bought there, worn out as it may be. The merchandise that still has the tags attached to them hold places of honor in my closet, and I am certain that it’s just a matter of time before they’re worth a small fortune on eBay.

When I meet my Daffy’s friends now in Century or Loehmann’s we cluster together and wistfully reminisce about our glorious days in Daffy’s. We still compare our bargains on the checkout line, but they seem lackluster, and everyone will admit that there is no store that provided the sense of exhilaration that Daffy’s did.

Daffy’s, we miss you.

 

 

 

 

 

Our New Pets

I have never been a pet kind of person, and I am by no means, an animal lover. I am squeamish about anything that creeps or crawls, and the mere sighting of a squirrel outside my kitchen window is enough to make me lose my appetite.

So when my son requested a pet for his birthday, I was initially thrown for a loop. Up until now, we had never owned any pet more high maintenance than a goldfish. The notion of nourishing an animal in addition to my kids seemed very daunting.

After a little bit of thinking on my part, and more cajoling from my son, I began warming to the idea. Anything that couldn’t be contained in a cage was out of the question, so cats and dogs were not even on our radar. I envisioned a snowy white bunny, sitting tamely in its cage while my son brought home a string of admiring neighbors, perhaps even allowing them to feed the bunny a carrot.

“Okay, Mudgie,” I smiled. “Daddy and I have decided that we think you’re old enough to take care of a pet.”

Mudgie’s almost eight year old, toothless grin was priceless.

“Yesssss!!! Can I get a Python?”

“A snake?! I was thinking maybe a rabbit or a guinea pig. How about a cute little hamster?”

“Those are soooo boring, everyone has them. I want a reptile.” He was resolute.

And so began the research. Milk snakes versus garter snakes. Geckos or chameleons? An iguana or maybe a bearded dragon? We spent hours online, we visited our local pet shop, and we took books out of the library.

We learned that reptiles have levels of care ranging from beginner to advanced. Most of them eat live food, and there was even a chapter in our gecko book entitled “Feeding the Food.” We went to Petco a couple of times to get acquainted with different species of reptiles.

After all of our investigation, we decided that a leopard gecko made the most sense for us since they are easy to care for, and they’re considered ideal pets for beginners.

On the day of Mudgie’s birthday, we went to Petco with a couple of his friends who came along for the exciting event. An employee named Joe was really helpful and patient and he answered all our gecko questions. He informed us that Petco was currently running a sale on leopard geckos, and I, who can never resist a sale, told him that we would take two geckos. He kindly wrote up a detailed list for us, which contained all the information we needed to care for our new pets.

We came home with the tank along with all the other gecko necessities that Joe had insisted we buy, and we set up our geckos’ new habitat. Once they were settled in, we had to get the crickets set up too. I poked holes in the plastic lid of container, threw in a slice of orange, and Mudgie bravely opened the plastic bag containing the crickets and poured them into the container.

We sat around the gecko’s tank admiring them and observing their stealth, cat-like mannerisms. All the kids on our block came by to check our new additions, while Mudgie basked in his novel celebrity status as the proud owner of such exotic pets. We fed them and conscientiously cleaned out their tank, making sure they were always comfortable and happy.

We’ve had the geckos for two months now and I can attest to the fact that they really are very low maintenance household pets. So what if I currently have a container of live mealworms residing on the bottom shelf of my refrigerator? It’s a small price to pay for my son’s happiness.

It feels to me like we spend most of our time in Petco, replenishing our ever dwindling supply of live mealworms and crickets. I still haven’t gotten used to the smell of that place, and I usually just hold my breath, until we’re safely back in the car with our fresh supply of insects.

Recently the novelty of our geckos has begun to wear off. We no longer find them fascinating to watch, and even their tri-weekly feeding sessions have lost their allure. We bought a bag of crickets the day before school started, and in the back to school chaos, we forgot to put them in a container with their food. Two days later, when it was bedtime, and my son remembered that it was time to feed the geckos, and all we had was a bag of dead dried up crickets. I assured him that geckos can go for long periods of time without food, and that we would buy them food in the morning.

The next day our hapless geckos were completely forgotten as we resumed the frantic pace of the new school year. Later that night when things had quieted down, and the geckos came out, (they’re nocturnal) I remembered that we hadn’t fed them in a while.

I vaguely recalled Joe from Petco telling us that in a pinch, geckos can be fed jars of turkey baby food. My husband and I dashed over to the nearest 24 hour Wal Mart to see what they had to offer in terms of gecko nourishment. We were pleasantly surprised to discover a huge jar of freeze dried mealworms for a mere $4.99. Thankfully, we have since cut down on our excursions to Petco, as the geckos seem to be just as content with dried mealworms as they had been with the live ones.

The geckos really are very endearing, and I must confess, I’ve become somewhat attached to them. Owning pets is not as difficult and time consuming as I had initially assumed it to be. Now my daughter is clamoring for a pet of her own as well, and I think I just might be brave enough to take on another one in the near future.

 

Gordon and Gecky

 

Where oh Where Have my Little Spoons Gone?

I came into marriage with a respectable amount of dishes, linens, and small appliances. Of all the housewares that graced my new kitchen, one of my favorites was my set of everyday silverware. The pieces were light and delicate with a tiny bow at the end of each one. I would admire them every time I set the table, and each time, the charming little bows delighted me anew. With no dishwasher at the time, I washed each spoon and fork fastidiously, carefully drying them on my pristine red and white checked dishtowels. I then lovingly returned each utensil to its compartment in my kitchen drawer.

A couple years and four kids later, and my once cherished set of flatware has slowly dwindled from a service for twelve to a service for seven (minus a couple of small forks). Particularly perplexing is the mysterious disappearance of all but ONE teaspoon. I noticed that they had gradually begun to vanish, but taking a recent inventory of my kitchen drawer, I was dismayed to discover that we were now down to one lone little spoon.

Determined to restore my flatware to its former glory, one rainy Sunday I rallied my husband and children to embark on the hunt for the missing spoons and forks. I even bribed my kids with the promise of a financial reward, should any utensils be found. Spoons were worth a dollar, and forks would earn the fortunate finder a dollar fifty.

Together we tore apart the house hoping to unearth the missing pieces. We discovered countless game pieces, hundreds of tiny beads from a broken dollar store necklace, and sole socks whose mates I had long discarded. Shouts of excitement resonated through the house as my children were reunited with many of their forgotten treasures. Although our puzzles now had their missing pieces, and the formerly defunct game of marble race could once again be played, not a single spoon or fork turned up.

Resignedly, I bade farewell to my silverware and made the decision to replace the set. In the house cleaning frenzy that we had started that day, I zealously attacked my mammoth extra freezer in the basement. With frigid fingers, I pulled out meat and chicken, ice cream and frozen pizza, and some unidentifiable blocks of frozen matter.

As I heaved out a frozen turkey, something fell to the floor with a resounding metal clink. A half eaten plastic container of Luigi’s Italian Ices lay there complete with a stainless steel spoon decorated with a pretty bow on the end! Sticking my head deep into the glacial shelf, I discovered three more identical cups, all with frosty spoons frozen into their centers! Joyfully, I washed and dried them, on my now faded dishtowels, and returned them to their rightful home in the kitchen drawer.

Now that we have four teaspoons, all my kids can eat ice cream at the same time without having to resort to the flimsy plastic spoons that break more often than not. I have decided not to replace the set, as I am still holding out in the hope of discovering more pieces in the most unlikely places. I have come to terms with the likelihood that most of my teaspoons have ended up in the garbage along with the yogurt cups with which they were eaten. The forks, however, still remain an unsolved mystery to me, one which I intend to figure out.

And so I persevere, wielding my dust rag and broom, ever hopeful that I will come across something of value. My previously mundane existence has become infused with excitement, as housecleaning takes on an adventurous twist, with the possibility of unearthing a long lost treasure. Sweeping obscure corners and dusting behind heavy furniture are now an exhilarating task, as I eagerly anticipate the missing objects I may find each day. Just the other day, my efforts paid off as I celebrated the discovery of a fork wedged between the radiator and the kitchen wall.

I’d better get back to my hallowed mission. Who knows what valuables are waiting for me underneath the oven?

Have you seen me?

Cupcakes

My daughter came home one day, bearing a small box of gray,

It held cupcakes; I was so very impressed.

They were adorned with flowers, she must have spent hours,

How she made them, I was unable to guess.

When her secret she did reveal, I let out a squeal,

It was so simple, I couldn’t help but laugh.

What appeared complicated to me, was simple as can be,

The flowers were marshmallows, just cut in half!

One afternoon in May, on a dreary, rainy day,

We made these cupcakes at home for a treat,

They were fun to create, the end result was great,

They were certainly too pretty to eat!

So they sat on a tray, day after day,

To eat them would be to destroy them,

Finally, I thought, I’m afraid they will rot,

I said, “Let’s just dig in and enjoy them!”

Eating them was fun, we consumed every one,

Crumbs were all that did remain.

Snapshots had been taken, so their memory wasn’t forsaken,

And we can show them off all over again!

Farewell Dear Couch

I sit on the grass alongside the curb shivering in the midnight chill. I have not been outside since the day I arrived at my home twelve years ago. The brisk night air feels unfamiliar on my faded, cracked leather upholstery. I listen to the foreign outdoor sounds, so vastly different than the comfortable nocturnal sounds of my old house. A sigh escapes my seams as I reflect on the past twelve years that have been my life.

The year was 1999. I sat there immaculate and pristine in the living room section of Furniture World, waiting to find a home. Numerous potential buyers admired me as they stroked my soft leather or sank into my overstuffed pillows. For me, however, none of these families seemed to be the right fit. It is told in ancient couch folklore that when a couch is presented with his mate family, he can feel it in his stuffing that they are the ONES. And so I waited expectantly while the days and weeks heralded dashed hopes and disappointment. But my youthful optimism prevailed and I believed that the right family for me would soon come along.

On a crisp day in October, when I was beginning to despair of ever finding my match, I spied them gliding through the automatic doors. As the young couple pushed their double Maclaren toward me, my excitement mounted. I could feel it in my stuffing, in my springs, and even in my wood; I had found my family. I hardly dared to breathe as the young woman unstrapped her newborn from the stroller and sank into my softness. She sighed contentedly, cuddling the baby and smiling up at her husband.

“It’s perfect. Have a seat.”

Her husband made himself comfortable, bouncing the curly haired toddler on his lap.

“We’ll take it,” he told the hovering salesman, who was anxious to make a sale. I felt like my seams would burst with excitement. At long last, I would be part of a family! I had found my match!

Following a harrowing journey in a mammoth truck stuffed with mattresses and dressers and some fellow couches, I arrived at my destination. I was hauled up to the second floor walkup apartment that smelled of fresh paint. As I was placed against the far wall, I exhaled with relief. With satisfaction I noted the comfortable, homey living room with toys and books stacked neatly on the shelves. I knew I would be happy here. I had finally come home.

The years raced by and I remained an integral part of the family, a silent witness to both momentous occasions as well the daily grind of what humans call life. My family moved to a new house where I received a place of honor in the airy living room, under the bay window. I hosted guests and enveloped them in my comfort as they celebrated birthday parties. New babies were nursed at unearthly hours of the night on my cozy seat while I whispered soft lullabies to mother and baby, trying to lull them back to sleep. Hundreds of bedtime stories were read to sleepy, pajama clad children in my sturdy arms. I tolerantly smiled through birthday parties and play dates when I was utilized as a trampoline.

As time marched on I morphed into a cozy homework nook. New readers stumbled over the unfamiliar letters sitting comfortably on my lap. Children and adults curled up on me on long winter nights with books and magazines. Relatives would doze on me after eating the savory, Thanksgiving turkey that filled the house with an intoxicating smell that seeped into the grain of my beige leather.

Gaggles of neighborhood children gathered on rainy afternoons to build castles, forts, and slides out of my removable cushions. With a little bit of imagination, the possibilities were infinite, and I could hold the kids’ attention better than any blocks or Lego building toys.

There was no better place for a child who was under the weather to observe the family goings on than from the warmth of my pillows snuggled under a blanket. Elderly grandparents who are no longer in this world sat on me cradling the great grandchildren whom they never dreamed they would live to see. Through joyful times and through adversity, I remained stalwart and sturdy, a constant comforting presence in the living room.

Every spring, I was disassembled, vacuumed and scrubbed until my leather shone. Squeals of delight reverberated through the house as long lost puzzle pieces, books, toys, candy and plenty of missing spoons were unearthed from the recesses of my crevices. One year was particularly memorable when a pair of valuable earrings was uncovered from deep inside my seams.

It was a good life and I was happy. As the family expanded and the kids grew, I began to exhibit signs of wear and tear. My soft leather became worn, and my stuffing poked out of the holes on my arms. I was patched up and repaired, but just as beloved as always. My cushions no longer adhered to the Velcro, and the rainy afternoon post castle clean up became laborious, as the cushions would slide right off of me.

After about 12 years, I began to overhear murmurings of my being replaced. Thankfully, the children were horrified at the prospect of giving up their beloved couch, and I was able to joyously partake in the upcoming holidays. I attempted to put my best arm forward and held in my breath so my sagging would be less discernible. After accommodating the weight of all the holiday guests, I grew weary, and there was no more hiding my sagging middle and drooping arms. I knew that I could no longer postpone the inevitable. My time had come. A search began for a replacement while I silently made peace with my impending demise.

As I sit near the curb on damp grass, watching the sun rise, I can hear the distant rumble of the garbage truck. I am tired and worn, but blessedly content in the knowledge that I have been loved and well utilized. I am grateful for the happiness I have witnessed and the warmth and joy to which I am a testimony. I have served my family well and my mission in their house is complete.

Perfect for Fort Building

Research Reports

In our family, a school project is a joint effort which includes parents, older siblings, sometimes grandparents, and on rare occasions, the student himself. We are currently involved in a research report on the Ringling brothers. According to my findings, there were seven of them. August, Otto, John….They led a fascinating life and I am grateful to my son, that from a list of  boring illustrious historical figures like George Washington  and Thomas Edison, he selected the more obscure, but way cooler Ringling brothers.

With a bit of a research, and some creativity, we were able to put together a fairly presentable work of art. Unfortunately, for me, what I deemed as presentable, the teacher did not, and my son came home relaying the message that the project “needed more information”. As a mother, I naturally interpreted the teacher’s benign comment as a personal affront to my intelligence. I had done hours of research online, simplified my findings to a second grade level, and then together with my son, created an eye catching display board. But being the aspiring supermom that I am, I dutifully went back to my computer, googled “Ringling” once again and printed out reams of information on all thing circus related.

At this point I was just wanted this project over and done with. I was so fed up with the Ringlings, and the plethora of circus photos spread out on our dining room table was making me dizzy. Ignoring my son’s plaintive cries of “Mommy, it feels like you’re doing the whole project for me,” I sat there gluing and cutting furiously. Occasionally, I graciously allowed him to help, and within a relatively short time, the project was ready to be turned in once again, hopefully this time to the teacher’s satisfaction.

In addition to this second grade research project, my seventh grader had a science fair project she was working on. My refrigerator contained various plastic cups of beverages and teeth. Sunday had me shuttling my daughter and her partner from Michael’s to AC Moore in search of red and white gingham paper, and spray paint to match their color scheme. I had planned to just leave them at the store, run a quick errand, and then pick them up. Well, apparently, it is illegal in the state of New Jersey to sell spray paint to anyone under the age of eighteen.

As the due date of the science fair project drew near, tensions in our home mounted. I had to guard the refrigerator vigilantly, so that no curious little hands would touch the cups that contained the decomposing teeth, or even worse drink the Powerade, orange juice or milk that were rotting in the cups along with the teeth. Every morning had me sweeping up scraps of cut paper from the kitchen floor, and scraping glue off the table.

I was confident in my independent daughter and her partner’s abilities, and I was certain that they could do the bulk of this project on their own. Although my assumption was basically correct, I had failed to take into account their lack of time management skills. While my daughter consistently reassured me that the project was under control, the night before the science fair had all of us up until after midnight.

First, they managed to lose all of their information on the computer, and at ten pm, they began retyping everything. There was a fair amount of drama involved, as well as plenty of tears, but they managed to retype it all in record time. Once that catastrophe had been resolved, they couldn’t transfer the pictures from the ipod to the computer. My kindhearted husband worked with them until midnight, while I looked on, breathing into a paper bag.

While I was suffering from the anxiety of it all, my daughter and her friend remained unruffled, and eventually sent me off to bed, while they put the finishing touches on their display board. I dozed fitfully, dreaming repeatedly of the girls showing up at the science fair with their project half done.

I’m proud to relay that the project turned out beautifully, and the evening of the science fair had everyone flocking to their project to check out the rotten teeth. My daughter and her friend stood there deliriously exhausted, accepting accolades for a job well done. When the teacher related to me how impressed she was with their work, I was able to smile broadly and say in all honesty that they had done it completely on their own.

Our Goldfish (RIP)

Our goldfish died yesterday. My daughter brought him home from school three months ago in a little plastic bag. I dug up an old glass vase to use as a makeshift fishbowl, since experience has taught me that goldfish in our house never survive for more than a week.

Countless mornings, I have come down to the kitchen and found myself facing a wide eyed fish floating upside down at the top of the bowl. Though it usually makes me slightly queasy, this time I took a deep breath, marched right over, picked up the whole bowl, and flushed the hapless fish down the toilet.

As my children trickled groggily into the kitchen one by one, I held my breath praying they wouldn’t notice the absence of our vase/fishbowl. As I doled out cereal and milk, plain cereal, and cereal in a bowl with milk on the side, none of my children seemed aware that anything was amiss. Only once they were all safely ensconced in school did I allow myself to exhale, mistakenly believing that a crisis had been averted.

“Where’s Goldie?” my three year old inquired later that afternoon.

“Who?” I asked a little too loudly.

“OUR FISH”, she replied, clearly annoyed at my ignorance.

I had to think fast. Should I tell her the truth? Did I really want to explain the concept of death to a three year old right now? After all, it was just a fish.

“Well, ummm, our fish got very sick, so I had to flush her down the toilet.”

“It’s cuz we fed her too much fish food, right Mommy? Can we got to the pet store and get a new one?”

I smiled, relieved that she seemed to have taken the news in stride, and that there was no accompanying tantrum.

When my three older kids came home, things did not go as smoothly. The absence of the fish, which had gone unnoticed in the morning rush, was now glaringly apparent. Although my kids knew that pet goldfish are wont to die, especially in our home, they were horrified at my appalling misdemeanor. How could I flush the poor dead fish without a proper funeral?

As I vaguely recalled the popsicle stick grave markers in the miniature cemetery behind the garage, I chided myself for allowing my children’s fish funeral ritual to slip my mind.

When our last goldfish had expired, I had been in the early stages of pregnancy, and the sight of a fish, as well as the smell of fish food, had sent me dashing to the nearest bathroom, awash in waves of nausea. When my oldest son, realized that the fish had passed on, he bravely scooped it up in a cup, lovingly placed it in a plastic baggie, and then proceeded to officiate at the funeral, while my two other kids looked on solemnly. Fishy (I think that was his name) was then buried alongside his three predecessors, Swimmy, Orangey, and Sharky. How could I have forgotten?

As a devoted mother, the fact that I consistently attempt to shield my children from life’s disappointments, coupled with the knowledge that death (even that of a goldfish) is an uncomfortable topic to discuss with kids, had prompted me to dispose of the fish swiftly and quietly, thereby deluding myself into believing that I could circumvent the whole predicament with a quick flush of the toilet.

I recalled with amusement the first time we had acquired a goldfish, and it had died within a couple of hours. The kids were very young, and being the novice parents that we were, my husband had raced out to the pet store, minutes prior to closing time, and replaced the ill-fated fish with a look alike, hoping to spare our kids the disappointment of the death of their first pet.

Often, in our quest to be perfect mothers, we desperately want our children’s lives to remain halcyon and carefree, yet we are ultimately doing them a disservice by sheltering them from the harsh realities of existence. By gently guiding them to face the world’s challenges head on, painful as it may be for us, we can hopefully fortify them to deal with the bumps on the road of life ahead.